


Five Times Ray Doesn't Get to Sing the Song of His Choice

by oxymoronassoc



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title pretty much says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Ray Doesn't Get to Sing the Song of His Choice

1\. 

“I’m standing on the bridge. I’m waiting in the dark. I thought that you’d be here by nowwwwww—“

“Ray, what the _fuck_ are you singing now?” 

“What the fuck am _I_ singing, Brad? What the _fuck_ am I singing?! Avril Fucking Lavigne, you overeducated ball-licker. How do you not know this fucking song? The gaps in your musical knowledge hurt me, Brad, they really do. ‘What the fuck am I singing’, Jesus. Trombley, you know this shit, right? Walt? Reporter? Come the _fuck_ on! Who doesn’t fucking know Avril Lavigne?!”

“Avril is for oversexualized twelve year-olds from some backwards-ass suburb of Los Angeles that shop at Hot Topic on a credit card they stole from their overweight, Valium-dropping middle-class mother.”

“Fuck you, man. Avril is fucking awesome. Your fucking dumbass Aryan grandkids’ grandkids are gonna be listening to this shit. It has lasting power. Back me up, Reporter. What did your pussy magazine give the album?”

“Uh, three stars?”

“See, Brad? Three fucking stars.” 

“Watch the goddamn road.” 

 

2\. 

“You better watch out. You better not cryyyyyy—“

“Ray, shut up.” 

“What, Brad, are you against a little Christmas cheer? Do we have a grinch in the humvee? Well I can tell you, your heart ain’t gonna fucking grow ten sizes or whatever that bullshit was. Who’d want their fucking heart growing ten sizes? That shit is fucked up.”

“It’s September.” 

“It’s because you’re Jewish, isn’t it, Brad? You’re bitter. Bitter you never got to go to the mall to wait in line with hundreds of snotty-nosed whiny little brats for your turn to sit on some dude with B.O.’s lap who was wearing a moth-eaten furry polyester suit. Never got to sit on Santa’s lap. Which, by the way, is some fucking queer shit. I mean just think about Ol’ Saint Nick. Dude breaks into your fucking house via the chimney, can’t even fucking bust down the door or break the window like a normal person, and then he eats your shit and leaves ‘gifts’ for your kids. Queer fucking shit, man.” 

“Shut up, Ray.”

_Ten minutes later:_

“I bet Santa’s a member of NAMBLA.” 

 

3\. 

“Trailers for sale or rent. Rooms to let...fifty cents. No phone, no pool, no pets. I ain't got no cigarettes—“

“There is no country allowed in this humvee.”

“Brad, you’re a fucking killjoy.” 

_Later._

“You fucking sang it while I was asleep on purpose.”

 

4.

“Summer lovin’, had me a blast. Summer lovin’, happened so fast—Come on, Brad, you sing the boy part.”

“No, Ray. I will not sing ‘Summer Nights’.” 

“I’ll sing it.”

“No, Walt. No one is singing ‘Grease’ in this humvee.”

“Brad, you’re an uptight, musical hating asshole. I thought middle class people loved musicals. You are all kinds of fucked up.” 

 

5.

“Humidity is risin’. Barometer's getting low. According to all sources, the street's the place to go cause tonight for the first time, just about half-past ten, for the first time in history. It's gonna start raining men.” 

“This song is fucking gay.”

“No one asked you, Trombley. If it was up to you, we’d sing songs about killing babies all day.” 

“Fuck you, man.”

“Trombley, shut up. Ray, stop provoking Trombley.”


End file.
